Questions and Answers
by KroganVanguard
Summary: <html><head></head>Castle struggles to make sense of the questions that swirl around his own life. A post-ep one-shot for 'Montreal' (7x02).</html>


It was strange to see his own face in the middle of the plotting/murder-board.

For years, he'd her face there, that hidden smile, that curl of hair falling over her eyes. The traces of the mystery that spun out from her, one element at a time, at first before she'd even known it had existed. The early days, when he hadn't known the mysterious voice at the end of the line trying to keep her alive. When he didn't know who'd shot her, or who'd ordered it. Then later once she became aware of what he'd been up to, when they combined her leads with his. When the question became not who had ordered it, but how could they find the evidence to link it to Bracken, how they could answer the question that had hung over her entire life, and put it to bed for both their sakes.

And now it was his blue eyes in the middle of that screen, not her green ones. The questions attached were about who'd taken him, not who'd shot her.

And there was one question he dared not put up there yet.

Was there a connection to Hollander Woods? His childhood?

"Hey."

He looked up from the screen, saw her standing in the doorway to his office, carrying a pair of steaming mugs of coffee. As it always did, his heart leaped a little bit in his chest when she smiled at him, sang a little louder when that smile reached her eyes as she walked towards him.

"Here. I know you were up on all night."

She wore the simple green t-shirt and black sweatpants she'd worn to bed last night, and her hair was pulled into the high ponytail she sometimes favoured. Even in that get-up and sans make-up, she was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

He took his mug from her, letting his fingers linger on hers, enjoying the sensation of her skin underneath him. She was so steadfast, so faithful in her love and belief in him that it still blew him away. Still made him grateful that she'd chosen him, that she felt for him what he felt for her.

"Sorry."

He brushed a kiss against her knuckles as she sat on the corner of the desk.

"I couldn't sleep."

"I know that feeling."

When he let go of her hand to pick up the coffee, she smoothed it over his brow, his unkempt hair. They shared a moment of silence, both of them looking at the board he'd spent the night setting up.

"So…does this mean you want some answers?"

There was no judgment in her question, no harshness. The softness of it was built on the steady support she'd offered him in the last few nights, after the revelations he'd come across in Montreal. He appreciated, appreciated that he could use it to anchor himself, centre himself around it, around that and his family while everything else in his life was shifting, while he felt himself spinning out of control. That had been the worst thing about waking up in hospital, waking up to find her angry, suspicious. To find her snapping at him, to find her faith in him shaken. Not that he could blame her for that, not once he understood what she'd gone through, not once he realised that there were two months missing from his life, from his memories. Not once he realised that they didn't have the whole story.

And now everything was even murkier.

"Honestly, Kate- I don't know. I don't know if I should keep digging into this or if I should just trust myself and let this lie. Or what if fake-Jenkins lied? Told me what he thought would best throw me off the scent?"

He didn't stop his turmoil from colouring his tone, from letting the questions he was struggling with seep into his monologue. Her fingers dropped down to his shoulder, gave him a sympathetic squeeze.

"I don't know, Castle. I can't answer this one for you. But whatever you decide, I'm here with you every step of the way. I promise."

He looked up at her, her eyes green and warm and honest.

"As long as you don't run off by yourself again."

"I'll…try?"

"Try very hard, babe, try very hard. Or I'll start cuffing you to the radiator every time I leave you alone."

"Oooh, kinky."

She swatted him lightly on the shoulder, before sliding back off the desk and standing upright. He made a moue of displeasure and she playfully rolled her eyes at him.

"Alright, I'm going to make us some breakfast so we can enjoy this weekend. Any preference?"

"No preference, whatever takes your fancy."

He watched her walk away, eyes still on her butt even in the shapeless baggy sweats, till she went around the corner and he could hear the faint clink of pots and pans.

With another slow, carefully savoured sip of the coffee he turned his attention back to the board, and what was on it.

And not on it.

He'd wrestled with telling her about Hollander Woods. Earlier, of course, and then most recently now. He'd told himself it was three decades old, that it didn't matter. That she knew who he was now, that she didn't need to know about every single detail of childhood. He was sure there were things about her still didn't know. Wouldn't know for years yet. They'd keep learning about each other, surprising each other till they reached their deathbeds.

But if Hollander Woods had something to do with his abduction, then it was a whole another story. Then it was something she needed to know in case she had to look for him again. In case something happened again.

What if he let her look, and she didn't like what she saw.

What if…

And yet, what if she'd had to see that video message one day not with him standing by her side, but after his funeral, after they'd found his body three years later, dumped in rural Quebec, only identifiable by his dental records. She'd watched the video, but he'd watched her, watched as she struggled to take in his reasons for making it, watched as she'd found the reassurance she was looking for, the reassurance he'd wanted to give her since waking up but with no memory and no proof, had been but air and platitudes.

He remembered the warmth of her fingers against his cheek as she strove to help him in turn, the faint and familiar cherry and vanilla scent that allowed him some strand of comfort even in the face of a million questions and no answers. He barely tasted the next gulp of coffee that he drank, too engrossed in memories and lack thereof. He remembered how he'd felt when she'd gone undercover, when she'd been missing for a day, and how worried and angry he'd been. How anguish had run through him like a river till she'd been found again. Tried to extrapolate that to two months' worth of those emotions, and couldn't. Couldn't imagine how she must've felt, what she'd had to do keep herself from buckling, from going under with the weight of it.

None of it made sense. The story of his own life didn't make sense, and for him that was the most galling and troubling thing of all. Why such a poor cover story? Could he have asked for amnesia in an effort to come back to his life here, with Beckett, with Alexis, with his mother, in order to protect them? In order to help them? In order to save his own life?

Too many questions, and no story to make sense of them all. It itched at the back of his mind, all day, even as he worked a case with Beckett, even when he spent time with Alexis and his mother. Puzzle pieces he couldn't fit together, and yet he thought he should leave well alone, for all their sakes.

"Castle? Breakfast!"

He took the opportunity to leave it alone for the moment (only running again at the back of his mind like normal, like a computer program that couldn't be exited out of), to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast.

She'd gone all out.

"Quite the spread Beckett."

"Oh, with the week you've had, I thought you'd deserved it."

There was a thud of a door upstairs, and then Alexis came bounding down the stairs, her hair a streak of orange behind her.

"Oh yum, big breakfast. I'm going to have to steal some with me and go though, have to hit the library today."

They were more comfortable around each other now, these two. It warmed his heart to see it, to see them coming together, acting in concert (even if it was while they were teaming up on him). Becket pulled together some of the food for his daughter, even as Alexis gulped down some juice with typical college kid enthusiasm.

It hurts to think about what the loft must have been like in his absence, his mother strong, trying to hold everything together through sheer iron will, and then slipping off to grief counselling meetings to find her own coping mechanism (even if it was flirting). Beckett unable to be in this space, their space, without him, backsliding into bad habit, spending most of her nights at her apartment, wearing the ring every day when she had barely worn it before, another reminder of him always against her skin. Alexis was probably relentlessly cheerful and optimistic, unable to entertain any other thought other than one of his safe return, the ice under her feet slowly cracking with every day, every week that passed without that coming true.

He glances down at the plate in front of him, the bacon still slightly sizzling, and then back up to see them both looking at him. Both slightly worried, trying to keep that worry of their eyes, both glad to see him back at home, and not trying to keep that out of anything. Alexis rushes off a moment later, leaving them alone again.

She rests her hand on top of him, the cool metal of the ring against the back of his hand.

"Eat, Castle. You don't have to figure this out today. Take it from me, turning this into your rabbit hole isn't going to help."

The bacon crunches in his mouth, hot and salty and delicious.

He understands what she's saying. Agree with her a hundred percent.

And yet he fears that without more answers and less questions, there is no doubt that this becomes his rabbit hole.


End file.
